Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Her eyes drifted back to the corral. Bales of hay, piled up neatly. Two horses lolling, one brown, one white. She imagined Lisa on the white one, wearing a tailored jacket and custom jodhpurs, honey hair streaming.

  Had the woman been a rider? She knew nothing about her.

  Two horses. Five cars. And a partridge in a—what belonged in the empty spot?

  Ramsey remained bowed and silent. De la Torre, Banks, and Stu were studying him without being obvious. Balch looked uncomfortable, the helping hand not knowing how to help. De la Torre looked back at the cars again. Grim-faced, all business, but managing to take in the chrome, the lacquer paint, the oiled leather, licorice-black tires. Banks saw him, smiled. Made eye contact with Petra and smiled a little wider.

  Stu just sat there. The blank-tablet look, he called it. Let the interviewee fill in the spaces. Maybe he found it easy with Ramsey because he had no car lust—not that he’d shown to Petra, anyway. His civilian ride was a white Chevy Suburban with two child safety seats and toys all over. Petra had been a passenger a few times, the Bishops’ dinner guest, if you could call transporting six children to Chuck E. Cheese dinner. The video games were fun, though. She liked kid stuff . . .

  She found herself touching her flat belly, stopped, and directed her attention back to Ramsey.

  Black curls bounced as the actor kept shaking his head, as if telling himself no. Petra had seen that so many times. Denying. Or pretending to. The guy was a TV private eye. Actors did research; he had to know the drill.

  Greg Balch patted Ramsey on the back again. The business manager still wore that helpless-lackey look.

  Petra watched Ramsey some more. Thought, What if he’s clean? What if this is the worst kind of whodunit?

  Then she reminded herself that he’d beaten Lisa up. Played parts for a living.

  She gazed at the huge, formless rooms. Den 1, den 2, den 3—how many dens did a wolf need?

  Finally, Ramsey straightened and said, “Thanks for coming over . . . guess I’d better call her folks . . . oh Jesus . . .” He threw up his hands.

  “Where do her folks live?” said Stu.

  “Cleveland. A suburb, Chagrin Falls. Her father’s a doctor. Dr. John Boehlinger. I haven’t talked to them since the divorce.”

  “I can call them,” said Stu.

  “No, no, it should be someone who . . . do you usually do that? I mean as a normal part of procedure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh.” Ramsey breathed in and let the air out, wiped his eye with a pinkie. “No, it should still be me . . . although . . . the problem is we’re not exactly—Lisa’s folks and me. Since the divorce. You know how it is.”

  “Tension?” said Stu.

  “I don’t know if my calling will make it worse—I mean, I really don’t know what my place is in all this.” Ramsey looked miserable. “Officially, I mean. We’re not married anymore, so do I have an official role?”

  “In terms of?” said Stu.

  “Identifying her, arrangements—you know . . . Lisa and I . . . we loved and respected each other but we were . . . apart.” Up went the hands again. “I’m rambling, must sound like an idiot. And who gives a fuck about arrangements!” Ramsey’s hand slammed into a palm. He turned to the right and flashed a profile.

  What a chin, thought Petra. In his world, love and respect meant a black eye, split lip. His lower lip began to shake and he bit down on it. Could he be posing?

  She said, “If there’s anything you could tell us about Lisa, it would be helpful, sir.”

  Ramsey swiveled slowly and stared at her, and Petra thought she saw something new in his pale eyes—analysis, cold thought, a hardening. Then, a second later, it vanished and he looked grief-stricken again and she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  In the interim, Ramsey’s eyes had moistened. He said, “She was a great girl; we were married for nearly two years.”

  “What about the drug situation, sir?” said Petra.

  Ramsey looked at Balch, and the blond man shrugged.

  “No big deal,” said Ramsey. “I shouldn’t have said anything. The last thing I want is for the media to get hold of that and smear her as—Jesus, they will, won’t they? Oh shit! It’s ridiculous, she was no big-time addict, just . . .”

  He looked down at his lap.

  “You’re right, sir,” said Petra. “Sooner or later it’ll be out, so we might as well know the facts. With drugs there’s always the possibility of violence, so if you could tell us . . .”

  Again, his eyes changed and Petra was certain he was appraising her. Were the other D’s noticing? Not overtly: De la Torre was ogling the cars again, and both Stu and Banks just sat there, noncommittal.

  Petra touched her hair and crossed her legs. Ramsey kept his eyes at face level, but he blinked as the black crêpe rustled. She let her ankle dangle.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he said.

  “It really wasn’t any big deal,” said Greg Balch. His eyes were blue, too, but an insipid, cloudy shade, suffering by proximity to Ramsey’s. “Lisa had a little coke problem, that’s all.”

  Ramsey glared at him. “Goddamnit, Greg!”

  “They might as well know, Cart.”

  Holding on to the glare, Ramsey took a deep breath. “All right, all right. Coke was basically what finished our marriage. Though, to be honest, the age difference was an issue, too. I’m from another generation, when ‘party’ still meant you went to a party and talked and danced. I drink socially, but that’s it. Lisa liked to sniff—Jesus, I can’t believe she’s gone!”

  He started to hide his face again, and Petra spoke a little louder to stop him.

  “How old was Lisa, Mr. Ramsey?”

  His eyes rose, dropped to her knees, then back to her face. “Was,” he said. “Was . . . I can’t believe from now on it’s always going to be was . . . she was twenty-seven, Detective . . .”

  “Connor.”

  “Twenty-seven, Detective Connor. I met her four years ago at the Miss Entertainment pageant. I was MC’ing and she was Miss Ohio. She played sax and had a great voice. We dated for a while, lived together for a year, got married. Got divorced. First time for both of us . . . guess we needed practice . . . is there anything else? ’Cause this is . . .” He touched his neck. “I’m feeling lousy, I really need to be alone.”

  “Guys,” said Balch. “Can we let Mr. Ramsey have some privacy?”

  Ramsey continued to stroke his own neck. His color had faded, and his face had taken on a shell-shocked numbness.

  Petra softened her voice. “I’m sorry, sir, I know this is stressful. But sometimes things that come up during periods of stress are really valuable, and I know you want us to find your wife’s killer.”

  Saying wife, not ex-wife, to see if Ramsey would correct her.

  He didn’t, just nodded feebly.

  Balch started to speak, but Petra broke in: “Any idea who she got her drugs from, Mr. Ramsey?”

  “No. I don’t want to make it sound like she was some kind of addict. She sniffed for fun, that’s all. For all I know, she never bought, just borrowed.”

  “From who?”

  “No idea. It wasn’t my world.” Ramsey sat up straight. “Getting dope in the industry is no big challenge. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you folks that. Was there something about . . . what happened . . . that makes you suspect drugs?”

  “No, sir. We’re really starting from scratch.”

  Ramsey frowned and stood up suddenly. Balch did a Pete-Repeat, edging right next to the boss.

  “Sorry, I’ve really got to rest. Just got back from a location trip to Tahoe, not much rest for two days, read scripts on the plane, then Greg had me signing papers, we both collapsed pretty early. Now this. Jesus.”

  Offering a detailed alibi without being asked, thought Petra. Fatigued but bright and bushy-tailed the next morning, playing de golf.

  All four D’s were listening actively. No one spoke. No one was allowed to probe
too deeply.

  Balch filled the silence. “It was a long couplea days. We both crashed like test dummies.”

  “You stayed here for the night, Mr. Balch?” said Petra, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground. She glanced at Stu. He gave her a tiny nod.

  “Yup. I do it from time to time. Live in Rolling Hills Estates, don’t like making the drive when I’m wiped out.”

  Ramsey’s eyes were glazed. He stared at the floor.

  Stu nodded again at Petra, and all four detectives stood up. Stu held out his card and Ramsey pocketed it without reading. Everyone headed toward the front door. Petra found Ramsey next to her. “So you’ll call Lisa’s folks, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir.” Even though Stu had made the offer.

  “Dr. John Everett Boehlinger. Her mother’s name is Vivian.” He recited the number and waited as Petra stopped to copy it down. Balch and the other D’s were several feet ahead, approaching the glass garage wall.

  “Chagrin Falls, Ohio,” she said.

  “Funny name, isn’t it? As if everyone regretted living there. Lisa sure did; she loved L.A.”

  Petra smiled. Ramsey smiled back.

  Measuring her. But not as a cop. As a woman. The grieving ex-husband was giving her the once-over.

  It wasn’t a judgment she jumped to easily. She didn’t view herself as God’s gift to men, but she knew when she was being evaluated.

  “L.A. was for Lisa,” said Ramsey as they resumed walking. “She loved the energy level.”

  They made it to the glass. Petra extended her hand. “Thanks, sir. Sorry you have to go through this.”

  Ramsey took it, held it, squeezed. Dry and warm. “I still don’t believe it happened. It’s unreal—like a script.” He bit his lip, shook his head, let go of her fingers. “I probably won’t be able to sleep, but I guess I should try before the vultures swoop in.”

  “The media?”

  “It’s just a matter of time—you won’t give out my address or number, will you?”

  Before Petra could answer, he called out to Balch. “Tell the gatehouse no one gets close. Call them now.”

  “You bet.” Balch hurried off.

  Petra touched the glass, raised her eyebrows, made a show of staring at the cars.

  Ramsey shrugged. For a middle-aged man, he did boyish pretty well. “You collect toys, then realize they don’t mean much.”

  “Still,” said Petra, “nothing wrong with having nice things.”

  Ramsey’s blue eyes flickered. “Guess not.”

  “What year’s the Ferrari?”

  “’Seventy-three,” said Ramsey. “Daytona Spider. Used to be owned by an oil sheikh; I picked it up at auction. It needs to be tuned every week and an hour behind the wheel kills your back, but it’s a work of art.”

  His voice had picked up enthusiasm. As if realizing it, he grimaced, shook his head again.

  Trying to keep her voice light, Petra said, “What goes over there, in the empty slot?”

  “My everyday wheels.”

  “The Lexus?”

  He looked over at the entry hall where the three other D’s had congregated. “No, that’s Greg’s car. Mine’s a Mercedes—thanks for your kindness, Detective. And for calling Lisa’s folks. Let me see you out.”

  Both cop cars left the development and cruised down a quiet side road. Stu drove until houses gave way to fields, then motioned the sheriffs over to the side. When they got out, De la Torre was smoking.

  “Gave himself an alibi,” he said. “Here all night with old Greg. And all that shit about not knowing where he fit in.”

  “That,” said Banks, “could have been trying to dissociate himself from it. Both for our sake and in his own mind.”

  Stu said, “Coulda been,” and looked at Petra.

  She said, “All that’s interesting, and so is the way he brought up the subject of drugs, first thing. Then he gets all prissy and reluctant, protecting her reputation when we want to discuss it.”

  “I think he’s dirty as hell,” said De la Torre. “The alibi especially bugs the hell out of me. I mean your old lady gets sliced up, you’re clean, cops show up to notify, do you feel a need to tell them you went to bed early the night of the murder?”

  “I agree,” said Petra. “Except here we’ve got a domestic-violence thing that’s gone public in the post–O.J. era. He knows he’ll come under scrutiny, has a reason to protect himself.”

  “Still,” said De la Torre, “too damn cute. The guy does a crime show, probably thinks he knows all the angles.” He grunted and smoked.

  Petra thought of the way Ramsey had checked her out. Then sidled next to her. None of them had mentioned it. Should she? No point.

  “I hate cop shows,” said De la Torre. “Bastards catch all the bad guys by the third commercial and damage my self-esteem.”

  “He’s not a cop on the show,” said Banks. “He’s a P.I., this macho do-gooder who protects people when the police can’t.”

  “Even worse.” De la Torre pulled his mustache.

  “Lots of tears, but he turned pretty businesslike when he ordered Balch to call the guardhouse,’’ Banks said. “The wife’s not even cold and he’s covering his rear with the media.”

  “Hey,” said De la Torre, “he’s a big fucking star.” He blew smoke at the ground. “So . . . what can we do for you guys?”

  “Check out local files, see if there’ve been any other domestic-violence calls—or anything else on him,” said Stu. “But quietly, at this point. We can’t afford even a hint that he’s being investigated.”

  “So what was that, a condolence call with four D’s?”

  “You bet.”

  “He’ll buy that?”

  “Maybe. He’s used to special treatment.”

  “Okay,” said Banks. “We flip paper quietly. Anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of,” said Stu. “Open to suggestions, though.”

  “My suggestion,” said De la Torre, “is we keep the hell outta your hair, go to church, and pray for you. Because this ain’t gonna be any slam dunk.”

  Petra said, “Pray away. We’ll take any help we can get.”

  Banks smiled at her. “I noticed you talking by the glass. He say what the fifth car was?”

  Petra studied his eyes for a moment. “His daily wheels. A Mercedes.”

  “Think it’s sponge-and-solvent time?”

  “Could be,” said Petra. “With all that blood, there’d be a good chance of transfer.”

  “What about shoe prints at the scene?”

  “Nothing,” said Stu. “He managed to avoid stepping in the blood.’’

  “Meaning he stepped back. Or pushed her away. Either would mean he was prepared.’’

  Stu thought about that, his lips compressed. “I’d like to warrant that Mercedes, all right, but we’re not even close to that without evidence.”

  “What if the guy learned something from his show?” said De la Torre. “Some ultra-high-tech way to really zap something clean. These celebrities, there’s always someone to clean up after them. Some walking-around guy, manager, agent, guesthouse bum, whatever—but hey, what am I moanin’ about? It’s your case. Good luck.”

  Handshakes all around, and the sheriffs were gone.

  “They seem decent,” said Petra.

  They returned to the Ford. As Stu started it up, she said, “Did I go too far in terms of leaning on Ramsey?’’

  “Hope not.’’

  “What’d you think about all those other hot rods?”

  “Predictable. People in the industry are in an eternal quest for the Best.”

  He sounded angry.

  “Think he’s it?”

  “Probably. I’ll notify the family when we get back.”

  “I can do it,” said Petra, suddenly craving contact with Lisa’s family. Contact with Lisa.

  “No, I don’t mind.” He began driving. His starched collar was tinged with grime and his blond beard was coming in li
ke new straw. Neither of them had slept for over twenty-four hours. Petra felt fine.

  “No sweat for me either, Stu. I’ll call.”

  She expected an argument, but he sagged and said, “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You did notification on Gonzales and Chouinard, and Chouinard was no party.”

  Dale Chouinard was a construction worker beaten to death outside a Cahuenga Boulevard tavern. Petra had informed his twenty-four-year-old widow that her four kids under six were orphans. Had thought she’d done okay, comforting the woman, holding her, letting her sob it out. Then, in the kitchen, Mrs. Chouinard went berserk, striking out at Petra, nearly clawing out an eye.

  She said, “At least no one can slug me over the phone.”

  “I really don’t mind doing it, Petra,” he said.

  But she knew he did. He’d told her, early in their partnership, that it was the part of the job he hated most. Maybe if she’d go the extra mile, he’d see her for the perfect partner she was and open up about what was bugging him.

  “I’m doing it, pard. If it’s okay with you, I’ll talk to the maid, too.”

  “Lisa’s?”

  “I meant Ramsey’s, if I can get her out of the house without being obvious about making Ramsey a suspect. But I can do Lisa’s, too.”

  “Wait on Ramsey’s,” said Stu. “Too tricky.” He pulled out his notebook and flipped pages. “Lisa’s maid is Patricia . . . Kasempitakpong.” He enunciated the unmanageable name very slowly. “Probably Thai. The blues are holding her, but if she asks to leave, they can’t stop her from flying back to Bangkok. Or calling the National Enquirer.”

  “I’ll go right after I call the family.”

  He gave her the Doheny Drive address.

  She said, “Cooperative of the sheriffs, letting us lead with Ramsey.’’

  “All the bad press both departments have been getting, maybe someone’s finally getting smart.”

  “Maybe.” Last month the sheriffs had been exposed for releasing several murderers through clerical error, giving county-jail prisoners gourmet food at taxpayer expense, and losing track of millions of dollars. Half a year before that, some deputies had been busted for off-duty armed robbery and a rookie had been found naked and dazed, roaming the hills near the Malibu substation.